My lack of baseball skills or knowledge of strategy could obviously be an impediment to my taking on a coaching role -- after all, there was always the possibility, however remote, that something could happen to the four other coaches (earthquake, volcano, bird flu) and I’d be in the position of having to give genuine on-field direction.

Peter Chianca / At Large

When my son’s baseball coach called to enlist my help with the team this spring, he cited my clear “love of baseball.” I can only assume he discerned my affection for the sport from my constant presence on the sidelines of my son Tim’s baseball games, which have probably numbered in the hundreds since he first picked up a tee-ball bat about six years ago, and which have progressed from hours-long marathons in which small children swatted at things (balls, bugs, each other) into actual, honest-to-goodness sporting events. It’s a wonder to see.

And he was right: I do love baseball. Of course, what I really love is the concept of baseball -- you know, the kind of baseball you see in movies like “Field of Dreams,” where it illuminates the human condition and heals broken men’s souls. Actual baseball, with all the standing around and spitting ... well, that's pretty good too, just more likely to induce unscheduled naps.

My sideline vigils have less to do with my love for baseball than for Tim, who has continually amazed me with his baseball skills, his work ethic and his knowledge of the inner workings of the game. Unlike most of the other fathers, who have all clearly played professional ball (at least in their minds), my advice has typically been limited to yelling “Nice cut!” -- I’ve determined that’s appropriate in pretty much every offensive situation, other than standing there and watching the ball go by. Then, after the game, I rely on Tim to explain to me everything that happened.

This would obviously be an impediment to my taking on a coaching role, even if my primary (OK, only) real duty would be to take pictures of the kids and get them into the local paper. After all, there was always the possibility, however remote, that something could happen to the four other coaches (earthquake, volcano, bird flu) and I’d be in the position of having to give genuine on-field direction.

Keep in mind these kids have already been playing baseball at least four years longer than my own two-year Little League career, which was marked by one spectacular catch that involved standing extremely still and willing the ball into my open glove, like Kreskin bending a spoon.

Still, as Tim’s coach said, “They’re only young once” -- it would give me the opportunity to spend some time closer to him and the action, rather than in a beach chair on the hill trying in vain to keep up with what inning it was. I said yes.

Fortunately, the other coaches were more than available to handle the actual, you know, coaching -- although I did find myself positioned next to first a few times, where my advice was limited to screaming “Back!” when the pitcher threw over, and a few times when he didn’t. Otherwise I spent most of the time in the dugout, encouraging the kids to cheer on their teammates and discovering just how awesomely, creatively disgusting 11- and 12-year-old boys can be when left to their own devices. If at least four of them don’t grow up to be gastroenterologists, it will be a waste of a true calling.

Still, just when I was convinced my coaching role would be limited to raking, tarp-pulling and public relations, I made an interesting discovery: One of the players, an irascible 12-year-old named Josh with a burning yet unrealized desire to hit a home run this year, was a huge Bruce Springsteen fan. People who know me know that I have a possibly unhealthy attachment to the Boss and his oeuvre, so this struck me as my one opportunity to contribute: I told Josh to listen to Bruce’s song “Badlands” five times before the championship game.

At the game, Josh ran right up to me: “Mr. Chianca! Mr. Chianca! I listened to ‘Badlands’!”

“Great, you’re all set Josh!” I told him. “Now go out there and, you know, do that thing you do.”

And he did it in the bottom of the third, bombing a two-run homer over the left field fence and proving my theory that Bruce Springsteen can do anything.

Of course when I told Tim that Josh hit his home run because I had told him to listen to Bruce Springsteen, he responded that no, he hit it because he got a fastball right over the middle of the plate. Still, Tim had that unmistakable look of begrudging respect that fathers like to pretend their sons have so they can sleep better at night.

It’s true that in the end, I may not have provided much in the way of actual instruction. But even if I never “coach” again, at least this one time I got to spend some time with Tim a little closer to the diamond, and shake his hand as he picked up his championship trophy -- and even stand, smiling, with him and his teammates in the official team photo.

Which I then got into the paper, of course.

Peter Chianca is editor in chief for GateHouse Media New England’s north-of-Boston newspapers and websites and author of “Glory Days: Springsteen’s Greatest Albums.” Follow him on Twitter at twitter.com/pchianca.